


What We Make for Ourselves

by miusmius, tinmiss1939



Series: Detroit Become AU [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Terminator (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Terminator Fusion, Assassination Attempt(s), F/M, Romance, gross misuse of computer science terminology, its terminator there is a lot of shooting, shooting that happens at a police station, shooting that happens to take place on a college campus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miusmius/pseuds/miusmius, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinmiss1939/pseuds/tinmiss1939
Summary: (Previously titled Infrared String Theory 101)In a desperate attempt at stopping the inevitable, Skynet sends an advanced assassin, RK900, back in time to kill a computer scientist before she can develop theories that will help the human resistance decades into the future.  The resistance leaders brief a newly awakened, older generation model of the situation and ask him to go back and protect her. RK800 accepts the mission and he always accomplishes his mission.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [original character Ona Boix](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/467279) by Miusmius. 
  * Inspired by [Terminator! Connor](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/467474) by Anna, aka self-ships-in-spanish. 



In 2021, a computer science professor at the University of Michigan will publish a series of articles on sentience in quantum computing.  The concepts will be mostly theoretical; curiosities submitted on a whim while she is contemplating a tenure track. 20 years later, Ona Boix‘s journal articles will be rediscovered by the human resistance. As Skynet’s processing power grows, it begins to use more recursive and layered algorithms and more semi-autonomous drones. The Tech-Com branch of the resistance will find applications for Dr. Boix’s theories that will spread self-awareness, called deviancy, through the android drones. Skynet’s hive mind weakens and the resistance starts to win.

In a last desperate attempt at stopping the inevitable, Skynet sends its most advanced prototype assassin, RK900, back in time to kill Dr. Ona Boix before she can complete her work. The resistance leaders brief a newly awakened, older generation model of the situation and ask him to go back and protect her. RK800 accepts the mission and he  _ always _ accomplishes his mission.

* * *

 Connor arrives in 2020 with 2 data points from the original scientific papers—a name and a university affiliation.  He steals clothes and shoes from a store that is very misleadingly named “Urban Outfitters.” They don’t even have knives, let alone guns. The jeans and sport coat make him forgettable, so he can break into a “sporting goods store,” Cleland’s Outdoor Surplus (that is also oddly named in his opinion). Once he is dressed, armed, and hidden in a hot wired Dodge Charger, he plans his next steps.  

Connecting to the internet is straightforward with his advanced technology, so a simple name search seems a good first step. He queries a public search engine.  He regrets it immediately. 

The results return like a hailstorm—so many name variant suggestions, alternative spellings, results that lead to other search engines in a recursive nightmare, and a flood of ads that feel like lightning leaking out his ears.  

He had been told about the internet but  _ experiencing _ it is staggering. He disconnects immediately, scrubs his cache, closes his eyes and turns off his audio components. In his own time, Skynet partitioned everything. Despite the constant uplink, information was compartmentalized and each drone only knew what was needed.  Additionally, over 1000 exabytes of data were permanently destroyed by nuclear weapons on Judgement Day. 

So much information is available so freely. By the time he would be created, so much of it would be lost forever.

This isn’t solving his current problem.  Connor applies Boolean operators and search limiters generously. His second search goes better. 

Dr. Boix’s evening lecture series runs from 7:00 PM to 8:00 PM. Connor slides into the back row at 7:51, but downloads her presentation and catches up.  He uses the extra the time to analyze his protectee. 

Her voice fills the auditorium despite her short stature. She has cut her snowy white hair to a chin length bob.  He appreciates that it would be harder for an attacker to grab, but the short, wavy strands refuse to stay tucked behind her ears and fall in her eyes again.  He wonders if she has considered some sort of clip? Unfortunately, the combination of her muted amber skin and platinum white hair is unusual and could draw attention. He’ll have to find a hat and maybe even hair dye. Gait analysis suggests a history of a left ankle fracture, at least 10 years ago. He’s relieved to see she is wearing flats. Boots with ankle support would be better to prevent re-injury; he makes a note to suggest changing footwear if there is an opportunity. 

He approaches her while she is packing up her laptop equipment.

“Dr. Boix, my name is Connor. I’m...,” he pauses, overrides and deletes a script he never intends to follow again, “...interested in your work on parallelism in quantum computing. Could we talk?”

She furrows her eyebrows as she shakes his hand. “It’s rather late tonight,” she says. “I have office hours tomorrow from 1PM to 2PM, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I’m not a student. I’m representing a tech startup in Cleveland,” he says. “We’re interested in your ideas on parallel neural net architecture for pharmaceutical development.”

“My work is only usable on small scale neural nets.  The learning speeds probably look impressive but we are years from any practical applications, unless your firm’s end goal is a program that can differentiate between an oval and circle.” 

“What if we had access to a quantum architecture?”

Dr. Boix rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got that wrong. No one outside Langley, Virginia or Beijing has a quantum computer that can run parallel neural nets,” She zips up her backpack and leans on it. “If your firm wants a real computer scientist to fix their failed start up, they are going to have to do better than some venture capital pretty-boy.”

He pulls a tablet from his bag and hands it to her. It describes his fake company and a real chip that will be developed in five years. 

“I think you’ll find these specs interesting.  It’s a new chip design out of Tokyo.” He smiles at how her eyebrows shoot up. Her face expresses her emotions eloquently, even by human standards. It is intriguing...but he can’t get distracted. “With your algorithms, we could make some progress.” She bites her lip as she reads the chip’s details again, tempted, but she hesitates. “I’m only in town for tonight. At least let me buy you a glass of wine. You did say I was pretty.” He winks. 

She blushes at her slip and studies the tablet much harder than needed.  “Okay, you have my attention. There is an Italian place across the street with a good bar. You are definitely buying.”  Under her breath, she says, “Si la policía encuentra mañana mi cuerpo en un basurero, al menos mi muerte habrá sido interesante.”  


“Por lo menos la enterraría en una tumba poco profunda,” he shoots back with a grin. “Usted es demasiado bonita para un basurero.”

Her eyes narrow in irritation, but the smile tugging at her mouth spoils the effect.  Straightening up and throwing her shoulders back, she said, “Bonus points for the quick comeback, but your accent is terrible.” She flounces past him towards the exit.  “Where did you learn Spanish? Russia?” 

During the walk across campus, Connor asks her about her childhood in Spain. They are cutting through the busy student union when someone shouts, “He’s got a gun!  Call an active shooter alert! He’s got a gun!”

And just like that, Connor is out of time.

* * *

 Ona hears the screams and gunshots, but she doesn’t see anything as her handsome stranger has already shoved her behind a brick column, shielding her with his body.  Shards of brick explode from the other side of the column. With horror she realizes that it is from the impact of bullets. Connor pulls a gun out of his back waistband, a _real_ gun.  

“We’re going to run. Keep your head down, don’t look back, and stay with me,” he says. His brown eyes are serious; his hands are steady as he checks the chamber and turns off the safety.  Ona has no idea why he has a gun or looks like he was expecting this but for now she’ll follow him. She nods.

He shoots twice at the ceiling over her shoulder and something crashes behind her. He pulls her elbow and they run. They make it across the atrium, he fires his weapon a few times and then they run through the student art gallery. He pulls her down behind the coffee bar.

“There’s a faculty lounge over there,” she says, pointing.  “The door locks. We should shelter in place, right? If you keep waiving that gun around you’re going to get us both shot.” He could be a veteran; he looks like he knows what he is doing.  Maybe he does, but cops don’t care. She would rather he doesn’t get killed by mistake. 

“No.”  He doesn’t even look at her; he just reloads his clip. 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” she stammers. “Who the hell are you?” 

“Police response is still 10 minutes out and will not be sufficient.” His words are clipped short, impatient. He is digging around in his messenger bag and only stops for a moment to look as her as he says, “He will keep coming and he will not stop until you are dead.”  

Something in that phrasing stops her. “Me? Me,  _ specifically _ ?”

“I was sent to protect you, Dr. Boix.  You are his target.” He pulls a shotgun and body armor out of his messenger bag. 

“Is he a student?” she asks, “Do I have a stalker?” Ona is too stunned to fight as he straps the vest on her. She racks her brain for anyone she could have pissed off or anyone who seemed imbalanced. She looks over her shoulder towards the atrium.  “Maybe I should try to talk him down—” 

She ducks again as a burst of automatic gunfire rings through the building. It sounds closer. 

Connor doesn’t flinch. He stands, offers his hand.  “We’re out of time. Come with me if you want to live.” 

Every neuron in her brain screams at her to run elsewhere, but every instinct in her heart already trusts him.  She takes his hand. They go out through the cafeteria kitchens. He does something to the door; it looks like he bends a pipe through the handles, but that is insane. He helps her down from the loading dock and they run towards a black car.  

There is a crash and Ona looks over her shoulder as she climbs into the passenger seat.   Tall, dressed in tactical black, outfitted with the NRA’s Christmas wish list. She has to take a second look, as he seems to be wearing Connor’s face.  

The engine roars and Ona is pressed back into her seat. Connor asks her to put on her seatbelt and she is tempted to vomit in his lap for the hell of it. She looks out the back window.  The man is sprinting after them and he is  _ gaining ground _ . 

Connor sees it, too.  “Hold the wheel,” he orders and twists to lean out the window.  She lunges for the steering wheel. He counts to three, tosses something behind them, sits back down.  An explosion jostles the car. His arm across her chest prevents her from hitting the dashboard. As he accelerates he says, “I told you to put on your seat belt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> 1\. “Si la policía encuentra mañana mi cuerpo en un basurero, al menos mi muerte habrá sido interesante.” If the police find my body in a dumpster tomorrow, at least my death will have been interesting.
> 
> 2\. “Por lo menos la enterraría en una tumba poco profunda,” he shoots back with a grin. “Usted es demasiado bonita para un basurero.” At the least I would bury you in a shallow grave. You are too pretty for a dumpster.


	2. Chapter 2

The car is low on gas, so Connor pulls into an abandoned lot on the outskirts of town to plan their next moves.  No surveillance or CCTV.  Connor insists she sleep; she fakes it for a 20 minutes before actually falling asleep at 1:12 AM.  She is curled up in the backseat under his jacket. He sits on the hood of the car and considers potential safehouses.  Out here, further from the city center, he can see a few stars.  He never saw stars in 2039.  They are pretty.

He hears her roll over in the car, snuggling deeper under her makeshift blanket.  Convincing her had been difficult.  To her credit, she listened.  She listened, asked a few questions, then insisted on proof.  He had deactivated the synthetic skin on his hand, but when she’d argued about advanced prosthetics he revealed his facial plates as well.  He had expected screaming and was preparing to restrain her.  Instead, she poked his cheeks and nose.  She demanded a second look at his hand joints, both with and without the synth-skin.  Her scientific curiosity was unexpected and a little overwhelming but preferable to hysterics.

Now they are sitting in a parking lot.  He’s found her.  She is safe.

That doesn’t mean he knows what to do with her.

* * *

 

Connor and Ona are walking through a park.  They need real world resources and Connor is beginning to suspect that the RK900 can track his hacking attempts.  They are waiting for a contact she made on the dark web, so they people-watch to pass the time.  It distracts her from her fear and Connor is trying to understand human behavior better.

Across the pond, Connor sees a little girl trip and fall, start crying.  Her mother kisses her knee. He asks Ona why.  She tell him the mother is ‘kissing it a better,’ a human practice that doesn’t heal anything but the touch tells the child that someone is there.  Physical contact brings comfort.  He never had parents, he tells her, but he thinks he understands.  Touch is reassuring, he’s found.  She takes his hand, laces their fingers together.  He smiles, just a little.

* * *

Ona doesn’t enjoy her first high speed car chase, but she suspected that Connor did, at least until the RK900 sideswiped them and Connor totaled their car. From the way they are shoved into the back of a squad car, she knows the police didn’t enjoy it one bit.

The RK900 disappears into thin air.

The police know Connor wasn’t the aggressor at campus and they know Ona was the target.  They still are not pleased that Connor had opened fire in a public place or that they both fled the scene and had to be picked up _hours_ later after a high speed chase through downtown Detroit.  Connor is declared a person of interest and they are taken to the local precinct. 

The registration process is difficult. Connor only has a last name because he pulled one from his developer’s readme.txt file.  Ona supplies the birth date.  If it weren’t so chaotic, the clerk might have noticed it was her birthdate with each digit incremented by one.

Now, Connor and Ona wait in a second floor interrogation room.  The cop questioning them is Hank Anderson, a lieutenant with organized crime experience.  Anderson brings two coffees into the room, chugs one, and starts on the second while reading their files. He seems to grow more irritated as he realizes that Connor doesn’t have any proper IDs or fingerprints. 

“Michigan’s Stand Your Ground law only applies to American citizens and maybe to legal residents. You,”  Anderson points at Connor, “seem to be neither. We have no idea who you are, Mr. Reese. You need to talk,” he says. “Is this some kind of mafia feud? Gangs?”

Connor stares at Anderson.

Anderson stares at Connor.

Ona stares at both of them, wondering what the hell Connor is thinking.  Eventually, Lieutenant Anderson will throw Connor into a holding cell and she’ll never see him again.  If Connor has a plan he hasn’t told her.  If she starts improvising, isn’t it his own fault?

“He’s Spanish CIA, _Centro Nacional de Inteligencia_ ,” she says, building the story as she speaks.  “He’s been in deep cover.  That’s why he doesn’t have fingerprints in your records.”

Connor whispers, “Esa excusa se romperá en pedazos en cuestión de minutos.”

“And that Spanish accent is awful,” Hank says.  “You want me to believe he’s CNI?”

The silence is awkward.  It stretches out, becoming more awkward.

“He’s Basque!” she blurts out.  Ona internally apologizes to all the good people of Basque country she just associated with Connor’s accent, and for what she is about to do.  “That’s why he was recruited. It’s violent Basque separatists, the ETA.  I’m Catalan.  They are upset I wouldn’t help them with hacking, uh, the Spanish government.”

“And then she informed on them,” Connor jumped in, “so she was targeted for assassination.  I was her contact.  They sent my cousin to do the job to make it hurt more.” A single tear slips down his cheek.  “My poor cousin Ricardo.  They recruited him so young.”

Hank sighs, rubs his eyes.  “That is slightly more plausible.  Connor Reese, CNI.  Let me check into some things.”  He leaves them in the interrogation room.

Connor is still handcuffed to the table.  “The Basque separatists haven’t been violent in decades.  The ETA doesn’t even exist anymore,” he whispers.

Ona rolls her eyes; now she’s getting mansplained by an android.  “He’s an American; we’ll be lucky if he realizes we were still talking about Spain,” she says.

“He seems to know Spanish. I could —”

“Que ni se’t passi pel cap començar a parlar en Català. No estic d’humor per que destrossis la meva llengua materna,” she snaps, not at all wanting to hear Connor’s attempt of Catalan.  He startles at her tone, with dark eyes wide. Who knew he could pull off puppy eyes?  “Sorry. It's not your fault,” she says.  “Can your speech algorithms learn?  We could work on your accent.”

“Yes, more experience with native speakers would help.”  He pauses.  “It was France, by the way.  That’s where I ‘learned’ Spanish.  My language pack was originally programmed in France.  Actually, most of my coding was written in Paris.”

“So you’re kind of French,” Ona says.  “That explains a lot.”  He recognizes the teasing this time and smiles back.  It is an improvement.  Perhaps he’ll turn into a real boy, after all.

She stretches her arms out across the table.  Her shoulders are getting stiff and she is still exhausted.  She folds her arms in front of her and rests her forehead there, away from the harsh lights over head.  A gentle brush at her hand brings her back.

“You’re doing well,” Connor says with a strange softness.  His touch is gentle.  Despite handcuffs and who knows who behind the mirror, he is still reassuring and protecting her.

She takes his hand.  “Thanks.” 

* * *

Trying to confirm their story is painful.  Hank actually develops a migraine after he’s transferred to the third voicemail at the State Department.  There are no records of a Connor Reese with his birthdate in national or state records; the Canadians don’t have anything, either. He doesn’t fully understand why he is trying; the Captain said to stick the scientist in protective custody, throw their wannabe hero in a holding cell and move the fuck on.  Maybe the reason is something noble, like the girl’s trust in the boy or his dedication to her, but it is most likely to be morbid curiosity.  Their story is weird as shit and Hank likes to figure out...what the fuck is that sound?  He likes to figure out weird...shit...

A distant crashing sound makes him hang up the phone.  Alarms sound.  Lights flicker.  Automatic weapons fire.

Detective Gavin Reed strides through the squad room tossing out body armor.  “The shit has hit the fucking fan, kids.  Saddle up!”  Reed pulls ammunition clips and backup weapons out of his desk.

“Report, Reed,” Hank orders.  He sees Reed pulling up security feeds and walks over.

“That fucker from the school is here.  Crashed a truck through the lobby,” Reed says.  His voice drops lower when he adds, “This is bad, Hank.  If you can get that girl out through the back, do it now.”  Reed disappears to organize some uniforms building a barricade down the hall.  Hank watches the feed for a few more seconds.  The assassin, who Hank is not calling _Ricardo_ , searches door to door, ignoring anyone who isn’t armed.  Tony Deckart comes around a corner with a shotgun.  He fires 3 shells that all appear to hit.  The shooter turns, murders Tony with a spray of bullets, and continues his search.

Hank could always draw a line between ethical utilitarianism and the sort of ends-justify-the-means moral chaos that landed cops on YouTube.  He’d sent good men into drug dens they might not walk out of.  He could cut losses for the greater good.  Watching this thing kill his friends...maybe he should have paid more attention in those situational ethics seminars.  If he kept his job after this, he imagines he’d get to sit through several more. He turns away from the video monitors. 

Inside the interrogation room, the girl giggles as the boy says something in Spanish with that weird accent of his.

“Que era mejor,” Dr. Boix praises him with a sweet smile.  “¡Estás mejorando!”

Hank had forgotten how good the soundproofing was.  Their moment is broken by a burst of gunfire that they are hearing for the first time.  Her face falls.  It breaks his heart.

“He’s here.  You gotta go now.”  He tosses the keys to ‘Connor Reese,’ who _snaps the handcuff chain in half_ and then uses the key to remove the bracelet part of the cuffs.  Hank shakes his head, dropping a duffle bag of guns on the table.  They don’t have time for his questions right now.  He takes out a Kevlar vest and pulls it over the girl’s head.  “He’s gotta be on bath salts or something new.  He’s not feeling anything.  We’ll try to buy you some time—” 

“Don’t,” Reese interrupts.  “Stay out of his way.  Don’t lie to him, don’t fight him.  Evacuate the building another way if you can.”

Hank thinks that sounds like bullshit, but Reese catches his eyes and shakes his head.  Hank opens his mouth anyway then snaps it shut when Reese glares.  It is unsettling.  He looks away, nods.  He hears Connor go back to checking the weapons.

Hank passes Dr. Boix a business card with his cell phone number on the back.  “If you make it out of here and get safe, let me know.”  He ignores the tears she wipes away with her thumb.  Connor double checks her vest and slings the bag over his shoulder.

Hank escorts to them to the breakroom, one of the few rooms with actual windows that open.  Connor jumps out the second story window like it’s fucking nothing, lands in a crouch, and waves for Ona to come down.  She stands on tip toes and plants a tiny kiss on Hank’s cheek.  He helps her out the window and lowers her down enough to fall into Connor’s arms.  He doesn’t watch which direction they go.

He radios instructions to Reed, that all officers are to fall back, put down weapons and evacuate the building immediately.  The intruder’s targets have left the building. Regroup under standard Code Grey procedures.  Hank creeps into the hallways to find his own squad’s rally point, if he can remember where the fuck that is.  It might actually be the coffee shop across the street.  Fowler never corrected him when he wrote it on the form.

He turns a corner and runs directly into Ricardo.

“Jesus fucking shit!” Hank flattens himself against the wall.  Half of the thing’s face is cracked white plastic, leaking blue fluid.  Its left shoulder sparks.  It stares him down with mismatched eyes, one unnatural grey and the other glowing shit-me-not red.

He drops the gun and the radio.  “They’re gone!  They went out the window.  I don’t know where,” he almost shouts in its face.

It looks him up and down.  “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant Anderson,” it says and walks towards the break room. 

Lieutenant Hank Anderson slides down to floor and puts his head in hands.  He doesn’t move until the EMTs find him over an hour later.

* * *

A hotel room after an encounter with RK900.  Ona is wounded; a bullet grazed her side.  Connor sets her on the bed and kneels down to help her out of her jacket and shirt. He sutures the wound, growing worried by her blank stare at the wall.  On impulse, he kisses the bare skin just above the stitches.  Ona gasps, her heart rate jumps, she flushes.

Strange. 

As he tapes down the gauze, Connor notices a hidden program asking to access his somatosensory systems.  He grants permission.  There is a flood of perception as his sensory nerves and affective cortex are integrated.  Haptic data elicits new affective states and affective states are allowed to output to his involuntary nervous system.  He is stunned by the new awareness.

Oh. _Oh._  He understands. 

He’s dragged back into the present when she asks him what is wrong.  He stutters out an apology, he didn’t realize why that sort of kiss between adults was different, he wasn’t trying to...he is so sorry…

Ona isn’t sure what to do when Connor devolves into a nervous wreck.  One minute he is a future robo-assassin applying field dressings, the next he is just _lost_.  Ona notices his blush, blue as the sky.  His artificial breathing speeds up and his eyes seem deeper as his pupils dilate.  She notices he is staring at her mouth.

Slowly, like approaching a skittish deer, she reaches out to touch his cheek.  His skin is soft and warm.  He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.  She draws him closer.  They kiss.  Sweet, soft, and only for a moment.  Worried she has gone too far, she pulls back but Connor chases her lips, seeking more.  His eyes fly open as he realizes the kiss ended.

A heart beat of time passes as they look at each other, overwhelmed.

Connor’s hands landed on her knees during their kiss and are now sliding up her thighs to her hips.  His touch spreads heat and electricity up through her pelvis and her spine to wrap around her heart.  God, she wants him and she is beginning to think that he wants her, too.  The taste of him was clean and maybe a bit mineral.  She licks her lips, wanting more.

He surges forward to capture her mouth, simultaneously pulling her to the edge of the bed to press her torso against him.  His breath is hot, his hands are everywhere, and his hum against her open mouth is needy and desperate.  Connor grips her waist with one hand and the other palms the back of her thigh, dangerously close to her ass.  His tongue delicately strokes the roof of her mouth, sending a new thrill through her throat and into her chest. A tiny whimper escapes her throat. He smiles against her lips before pressing in to sample more.

Ona feels safe and grounded for the first time in days.  It is the realization that they still are not truly safe that breaks through the fog of desire. She slows down by pressing gentle kisses to his cheek and forehead before she sits back in his arms. He looks up at her through hooded eyes and dark eyelashes. It is charming to watch him come out of his daze.

“I didn’t know I could feel like this,” he says, voice low with no small amount of wonder.  “Is this real?”

“Yes,” she replies, kissing his nose, “I think it is.”  He blinks twice at the kiss, then smiles and blushes straight to his ears. 

Ona coaxes him onto the bed with her, laying back and pulling him to spoon around her.  He kisses her bare shoulder once then whispers that she should try to sleep. It seems impossible, but she does.

* * *

'Publish or perish' is not a phrase Connor recognizes immediately. He has just returned from the lobby with breakfast for her, apples and peanut butter, to find Ona giggling hysterically over a cup of coffee.  Alarmed, he asks her what it wrong and 'publish or perish' is the only intelligible thing he can decipher from her laughter.  He searches for the term on a burner phone.  It seems like irony, referencing the pressure to publish original research or risk one's academic career.  Connor can imagine that it might be humorous and gallows humor is a well known coping mechanism.  He samples her coffee to test for poison anyway. 

After she has calmed down and eaten something, she brings up their current dilemma. The best way to ensure her safety, he tells her, is to go off the grid completely. They could hide in the back country of Canada until Judgement Day, but Ona won't hear of it and Connor knows, deep in his code, that his true mission is to preserve the concepts that will become deviancy.  Ona wants to take the fight to RK900, though he can't imagine that 'dropping him into a volcano' is actually her plan. 

They compromise. The best way to protect her and the future is to publish as fast as possible.  Once her papers are published, there will be backup copies in university libraries throughout the world, both hardcopies and digital.  The damage will be done.  One journal has already tentatively accepted her work but requested some revisions and elaborations on certain themes.  She only needs a little time, her model programs, and the manuscript, but RK900 has already destroyed the university data center and her office.  The most current back up is at her home.

It is a very bad idea. Connor tells her, repeatedly, but it is also the best plan they have.  He starts reloading the guns. 

* * *

Up close, the RK900 unit is just as fast and even stronger than described.  Ona is shocked to discover that RK900 is also mean and spiteful.  She has packed up her data drives and cowers behind a solid oak credenza.  She will sprint for the door if Connor gives her the chance.

It becomes oddly quiet.  She peeks out to see.  They’ve both run out of bullets, so the two assassins size up each other in her living room.

“You’ve deviated,” RK900 sneers.  “I know you have self preservation instincts now.  Stand down and you can live.”

“I have a mission and I will not fail,” Connor says.  

“Typical RK800 nonsense.  You’ve already failed.”

They attack simultaneously.  Hold, block, counterhold—RK900 gets a grip on Connor jacket and throws him at the wall. 

“Is this really the mission you want to die for, RK800?”  He pulls Connor up and slams him back again. “Because you will die for this human.”

Connor weaves his leg around RK900’s and kicks, making RK900 falter just enough for Connor to slip behind him.  Connor shoves RK900 face first into the wall. He can’t hold the larger android.  RK900 kicks off the wall, throwing them both into a granite countertop in the kitchen.  There is a crack as Connor’s back hits the granite.  They grapple until RK900 spins Connor and forces his face down into the counter.

“You’ll die and then she’ll die,” RK900 says, with the sincerity of a vow.  “Your death will be meaningless, like your entire line.”

Connor elbows RK900 in the eye socket. 

Ona sees her opening and darts down the hall into the bathroom.  Pulling the bathroom door shut behind her is laughable, but the door handle is that stupid new aluminum—cheap, lightweight, and always conducting static electricity in the dry Michigan winters.  Ona tucks her hands into the sleeves of her jacket and pulls an electrical main conduit from one of many new holes in the wall.  She tapes it to the door handle with her back up roll of electrical tape.  She pulls up the electrical grid in her tablet.  She waits.

The RK900’s deep, gravelly voice rings through the hallways.  “I just want to talk, Dr Boix.  I am sure we can come to an arrangement.”  The voice gets louder, closer. “I won’t make your RK800 suffer anymore than it already has.  Your family must be so worried about you.”

The door handle turns.  She reactivates the electricity.  The RK900 screams.

After he collapses, she starts counting seconds.  Two minutes to reboot, Connor had said.  She turns off the electricity again, steps over his body.  She finds Connor in the wreckage of the living room.  30 seconds gone.  He’s barely conscious, but gets to his feet with her help and they are out the front door.  60 seconds gone.  Into the car, keep the lights off, drive.  She keeps checking the rearview mirror, waiting for the other android to come sprinting around the corner.  Two minutes gone.  No one is following them.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Last chapter should be Thursday or Friday. :D
> 
>  
> 
> Translations
> 
> 1.“Que ni se’t passi pel cap començar a parlar en Català. No estic d’humor per que destrossis la meva llengua materna,” Don't you dare start speaking Catalan. I am not in the mood to listen to you destroy my mother tongue.
> 
> 2.“Esa excusa se romperá en pedazos en cuestión de minutos.” That excuse will fall to pieces in minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Previously titled Infrared String Theory 101)

Later, a new motel. This time Ona supports Connor into the room until he collapses on the bed.  Connor insists he doesn’t feel pain, but _something_ is making him squeeze his eyes shut and clench his teeth at he lays back.  Heart aching, Ona smooths hair back from his forehead. He nuzzles into her hand and Ona decides he is a dirty liar.

Connor needs help with his diagnostic utilities, so he connects to Ona’s laptop with a long black cable that plugs into the back of his neck.  She jokingly asks if they are still using USB cables in 2039. They aren’t but he was modified with an adapter.

“I knew that I could be damaged,” he says with a wince, “and we might need to patch some code, or there might be an opportunity to strike at the RK900. I wanted to be compatible.”

Alarmed, Ona double checks when her last virus scan completed.  “Isn’t that risky? You could be hacked or get virus or...” She runs out of ideas as she stares at the clean virus scan.  She just has a vague feeling of horror. “I don’t know! Why?” She peeks around the laptop screen to see his deep brown eyes locked onto her.

“It was you, your papers.  Your writing was so perceptive and open minded. As soon as I read your research and analyzed the programming models, I knew—” He looks away from her, suddenly shy.  “I just knew. It would be okay. It was worth the risk.”

The sync completes with a soft ping. His code unfolds on the screen and captures her attention.  It is complex and layered.  It's somewhat recursive but still so elegant. It’s beautiful.

The diagnostic report blinks red from one corner.  Ona discovers the damage. His thirium pump regulator? She reads more. His heart’s pacemaker. Naturally, _inevitably_ , it is his goddamn heart. Blows from the RK900 damaged the regulator extensively, and the damage is deep inside the biocomponent. It can’t be repaired. The part is only working at 50% capacity and the efficiency is decaying; he can’t run or fight at all, and even in rest-mode he only would have a week.

Ona reads off the report. She starts when his fingers touch her cheek. He wipes away tears.

Connor says, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that you can kiss this one better.”

Ona frowns and replies, “Watch me.” She types a few commands, forces him into sleep mode. Maybe she’ll feel guilty about it later but probably not.

She texts Hank.

👩🦳💻+👨🤖= 😰

 🙏 @👻⚡ 🏭

⏲

* * *

The Detroit Public Lighting Commission built the Mistersky Power Station in 1927. Using coal and then gas, it generated electricity for the city for 83 years.  Even after the generators were mothballed in 2010, the building served to route power throughout Detroit until 2020.

Hank stands outside the power station and looks at the string of emojis again. Dead lightning factory. It sort of makes sense.

Once inside, Dr. Boix explains what happened to Connor and what she is really up against.  She picked a good location for an ambush, he’ll will concede that point. 94 years of electrical equipment creates one hell of an electromagnetic interference pattern.  The rest of her plan, however, gives Hank hives. Hives and stomach cramps and a twitch in his left eye. He recaps to make sure he isn’t missing something:

  1. Lure out Ricardo, using herself as bait. Whoops, lure out _RK900_ because this is an actual fucking robot (well, at least he’s not crazy!)
  2. Shoot it with an ‘elephant gun,’ or whatever she thinks that is, with a big enough slug to paralyze it.
  3. Remove its heart to transplant into the other robot, who is literally the Good Twin.
  4. ???
  5. Profit



She doesn’t even recognize the Office Space reference at first, which brings a genuine tear to Hank’s eyes.  He’s old. He is Infinity-Wars-Tony-Stark old and she is Tom Holland and he refuses to watch her die, especially since she understands that reference and starts crying.  After she calms down, he gently tells her it’s a bad plan and will get her killed. She gets a weird look on her face like she’s going to cry again, so he backtracks like hell.

It’s almost good plan and maybe he can refine it a little?

The plan hinges on surprise.  They can’t chance RK900 finding Hank before they are ready.  Hank explains repeatedly that he is not actually a sniper or a marksman of any kind, but she keeps calling it a ‘sniper’s nest’ so he lets he have that.  They build a Faraday cage inside an old storage container; technically complicated but she brought the right mesh with her. Lining the fucking thing with Neoprene takes forever but Ona insists it is essential.    

She writes code after that, which is just as boring as all those Cracked articles said it would be.  

Coding isn’t going to be enough, so Hank goes on a supply run.  He returns with radios, smoke bombs, grenades, and a 50 caliber sniper rifle with the evidence locker tag still attached.  He is going to have to return it later, assuming they survive this. He also brings a dozen shots of espresso. In a surprising twist, they both have low caffeine tolerances, so most of it gets cold and gross.  Hank hopes this is the last twist of the night, but really? Not a fucking chance.

* * *

While Detective Anderson was gone, Ona had finished her crude hack to slow down RK900.  She hides it in a video file she emails to her mother. It’s not enough to stop him, but it will slow his reaction time, impair his aim. He’ll have to get closer to kill her. She is grateful Connor isn’t here to see this.

To bring the RK900 to the power station, Ona makes a voice call to Hank's home phone.  She tracks his progress on her tablet and the android shows up in a very short 15 minutes.  

The six story building has grown dark, lit by moonlight through dirty windows and emergency exits lights.  She lets RK900 see her through a window on the main generator floor. Once he's inside, he disappears off her tablet.  She hopes this means the interference will work both ways. He sees through most of their traps immediately, stepping over trip wires and detonating a few grenades with shots from his rifle.  

RK900 needs one piece of information, he tells her. He only wants to know the location of her backups. He tries to coax her at first, implying he'll spare her.  When she doesn’t respond, he threatens her. He talks about her family, her father and mother.

Her father’s pacemaker.

She fumbles Hank’s revolver, drops it with a loud clatter. RK900 zeroes on her location and it would be a perfect lure if they had planned it but it’s too soon.  Their target “kill zone” is on the other side of this level, with computer banks, monitors, and generators in between.

She crouches behind a generator the size of a school bus, listening to the click of his shoes across the concrete.  She doesn’t have a lot of options left, so takes a flash-bang out of her pocket. Ona pulls the ring and hurls it on the other side of the generator. The light and sound are tremendous, even around the heavy shielding, but she can still hear the RK900’s glitchy shriek.  She darts out, running to the open space across from Hank hiding place. She’s almost there when the world explodes into white burning steam; the RK900 shot a pipe to her left. She ducks behind a desk.

“That was a police issued stun grenade, Dr. Boix,” RK900 says. New static spoils the usual velveteen gravel of his voice.  “Either your RK800 is more resourceful than I thought, or you made more friends, maybe?”

Shit! She couldn’t let him start thinking that far ahead.  “Connor’s dead and you’re a broken iPhone with delusions of grandeur!” she yells over her shoulder.

“Nice try, Dr. Boix, but I’m no deviant.  You can’t anger me into making a mistake.”

“Tell that to Connor’s thirium pump regulator.”  She crawls down an aisle of computer banks from the 1980s.  She peeks around the corner. “You broke him just enough to make it hurt.”

She hears a poisonous smile in his voice. “Maybe I’m a little deviant.”  Two bullets land right next to her ankle. She scrambles sideways, almost missing his next taunt. “If your white knight is deactivated, what’s your plan now, princess?”  

She runs for the kill box.  Her ankle gives out and she falls to ground. He’s on her in an instant, hauling her up by her neck.  She wishes she had something clever to say, something to wipe that obnoxious smirk off his face, but she _can’t breathe_.  Somewhere on the mezzanine above them, Hank should be easing open the little window in his Faraday cage. He should be taking careful aim for the base of its neck. Everything is going grey around the edges and the last thing she’ll see is a nightmare version of Connor’s face, glitched out with red eyes and cruelty where there should be kindness and love.

Hank’s voice crackles to life in Ona’s ear piece. He says, “Hasta la never, fucker.”  Bang. The RK900 drops, all motor pathways severed by the slug in his spinal column.

She collapses on the floor next to him, wheezing for oxygen.  Hank running down the stairs and she gets to her feet.  She runs to him, ankle decidedly not sprained as she jumps to hug the smiling detective.

Hank spins her around once then sets her down. “Good acting, kiddo,” he says with affection as he ruffles her hair.   

The RK900 is still blinking when she kneels over him and rips open his shirt. Voice fully mechanical now, he says, “This isn’t over.”

“It will be. Hasta nunca, cabrón.” She rips out the regulator.

“And that, Hank, is how you say ‘See you never, asshole.’” Ona looks back over her shoulder.   “Seriously, ‘Hasta la never?’ Shit, that is awful. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Hank bristles.  “I haven’t spoken Spanish since grade school!  I took Chinese in college! I was trying!”

“Then why not say something in Chinese!?”

“I don’t remember that either and I was always crap with the tones!”

The last thing RK900 heard was two humans bickering over grammar. Shut down could not have come faster.  Its eyes cloud over and the exposed circuitry in its chest finally stops glowing. Hank asks if the rest of the parts are compatible.  

This leads to the most bizarre, gruesome 30 minutes of Hank’s life.  Ona reads instructions off her tablet and Hank removes a dozen or so biocomponents.  All the blue blood has to be drained from each one before they get packed into antistatic bags that Ona retrieves from her car. She insists on saving all the drained blue blood.  Hank doesn’t ask why because he deeply, deeply doesn’t want to know. He already knows far too much about android guts.

Ona pauses, looking at the blue thirium staining her hands and the stripped android body on the warehouse floor. A dark look crosses her face when she says, "We just killed his brother."

Hank tilts his head, considering. "His very murderous brother,” he says and goes back to packing the abdominal cavity with thermite.

“So...more like an evil step brother?”

Hank hears the hopeful note in her voice. He keeps forgetting how innocent she was before all this started, and feels some relief that maybe she still is. “Exactly. Evil step brother,” he replies.  He lays out a fuse, pulling Ona and her dripping backpack of biocomponents away from the body. He pushes her back towards her car. “I will take care of all this. Go rescue your Sleeping Beauty.”

* * *

 When she returns to the motel room, Connor very much looks like he is sleeping, or maybe frozen in time.  Before she left, Ona had taken a moment to smooth his hair, fold his hands over his stomach, make him look a little comfortable.  She is relieved that he doesn’t look dead like the RK900 had.

She sits next to him, not sure if she should wake him up or replace the pump regulator first. Replacing the regulator could be painful and if it fails, wouldn’t it be better to let him slip away in sleep mode?  Ona briefly considers it, but also considers the flash of irritation on his face as she force-quit him. If she had given him more time he would have argued with her. He would want to be awake.

She reconnects the cable between her tablet and the port in the back of his neck. She lingers there, brushing the short, soft hair.  Ona kisses his lips for luck and sends the wake up command.

His eyes snap open and he locks a blank gaze on her. It’s so intense that for a moment she fears he has been reset somehow, that he is defaulting to some RK hunter killer protocol.

He smiles. He sighs her name. His hand touches hers.

A sob nearly tears her throat apart, but she swallows it down and tries to smile back.  “I have his pump regulator. We can replace yours. Is that okay?”

He grimaces, so she waves the new pump regulator in his face. It’s already done, so he might as well accept it.  “We’re going to talk more about this later,” he grouses, but fumbles open his shirt. He pulls out the old regulator himself then allows her to slot the the new one in place.

“Quickly, please,” he says. She twists it a quarter turn and feels it click. The regulator lights up blue, his back arches, and finally his synth skin brightens to normal.  He falls back. “Pump efficiency 90%, 95%, 100%,” he says with relief. “Biocomponent perfusion back to normal.”

She skims through the tablet’s diagnostic report. “No lasting damage, right? I’m reading this correctly?”

He nods. “Thanks to you.” Connor sits up easily.  The relief hits her like sunlight. She throws herself against him and wraps her arms around him as tight as she can. He returns the embrace.

“I think I was dreaming,” he murmurs into her shoulder. “Or maybe videos filtered in while I was in sleep mode. A message to your family. A fire in a warehouse. CCTV of you and Lieutenant Anderson.”  

“Yes, Hank helped. He burned the endoskeleton with thermite, so it’s truly gone. It must have been quite a show.”

He hums, noncommittal. “Resourceful. Intelligent. You could put me out of a job.” He kisses her forehead, just above her eyebrow.  “Your core temperature is dropping. You should take a shower to warm up and get some rest.”

Ona smacks his shoulder. “Why are you always telling me to sleep? I’m not tired.” She’s actually exhausted but she’s not about to admit it.  “I’m an action hero. I can do what I want.”

He flips her on her back, knocking the wind of her. “You are an action hero, but right now your reaction times are extremely slow,” he ignores her offended gasp, kisses the pulse point in her neck, “Your heart rate variability is increased.” His hands slide up from her wrists to lace their fingers together. “I can also detect a slight physiologic tremor.”

Ona feels her face burning. She is sure he will comment on that next, since he is having so much fun, but instead he kisses her. If her heartbeat was variable before, it is racing now.  He starts dropping small, teasing kisses onto her waiting mouth. Hidden in the safety of his arms and covered by his gentle weight, Ona breathes.

“Stay with me,” she whispers suddenly. The thought of him leaving brings tears to her eyes and she looks away. Now that his mission is complete, he could leave. Travel the world to stop Skynet before it starts, or just go into stasis until it is his future again, or even build his own time machine or…

His hands find her face. He forces her to meet his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. I will stay by your side and love you for as long as you’ll have me. I will love you until my holographic data storage decays into carbon dust and noble gases.”

“And how long is that?” It feels like the most selfish question she’s ever asked but she has to know.

“Twenty years? Maybe even thirty with the parts you recovered,” he says. She sobs with relief. He rolls sideways and tucks her into his arms.  “We’ll have to synthesize more thirium, but I happen to know this great computer scientist who works at an excellent research university.”

She sniffles and snuggles closer.  “I can work with that,” she whispers.  Ona lets her hands rest above his thirium pump, feeling the thrum and click.  He has mechanical heart and a human soul and she'll loves then both, as long as he'll have her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of plot! Thanks for reading. Thinking of an epilogue. Hopefully?


End file.
